Screaming Corpse is just another day at Torchwood
by torchwoodtimelord
Summary: Post CoE-AU-There's a strange little man in Glasgow they say, who works for this agency called Torchwood. Even old Archie didn't know how strange things could get until he heard the corpse of Mr. Jones screaming in the morgue's freezer. - ABANDONED
1. claustrophobia

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own Torchwood. And just to keep things fair and square, I don't own Doctor Who either. I mean, I own merchandise, clearly, but not the actual intellectual properties.  
**MISC:** This was written for a friend on a whim. There IS Gwen Bashing, because I don't like Gwen. Also, This has man on man-ness. Yup, I said it. So if you don't like slashtastic_ (omg wtf what are you doing even LOOKING at Torchwood stories then?!?!)_ by all means look the other way. n.n **And Lastly, all blocks of text done in **_italics _**will be dream sequences or daydreams.**

* * *

**_claustrophobia_**

_"James... James, what the hell are you-"_

_The half-breed dropped the helmet on the Earth man's head, fastening the clasps and tightening them. "Right now," he said, unwilling to meet his companion's demanding and questioning stare. "This is the only way. If I don't do this..."_

_He went to the controls as he trailed off. He tried to look as the alien pulled down the backup panel from the ceiling, the one in Gallifreyan the Earthling noted. The monitor beeped, the ship groaned as she shook around them._

_"Hold together a while longer old girl," he said. "Just a while longer."_

_"James, you know I trust you, but this thing's going to fry my brain! Get this contraption-"_

_He never finished his sentence as the commander spun around, grabbing him and pulling him into a tight embrace. It was desperate, just as desperate and longing and wholly sorrowful as the lips that smashed into his own._

_And then, there was nothing but the fading sound of his voice, accompanied by the groaning of the dying ship._

_"If I don't do this, I'll lose you forever," JJ said, his voice wracked with anger as he hit the switch._

_The pain was sudden, the pain was sharp and agonizing. He swore his brain was going to implode, or maybe explode all over the hodgepodge upholstery in the cockpit. As his vision blurred sometime between the thirty-seventh and thirty-eighth jolt, he could only see the stern, stone face of James. The man's eyes betrayed his rarely controlled expression._

_"I've poisoned you," he said, knowing the human was still aware enough to hear him. "Your body will take on a death-like state when the process is completed. You'll wake up in a week. Fine and dandy as the day you were... **born**."_

_He felt hands on him as his body, despite the pain, weakened. Was he tilting? Was he fainting or falling over? The earthling couldn't be sure. But through the pain of the process he'd been forced into, he focused on the... his commander's hands as they handled him with care._

_"It's the only way left to keep you safe. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."_

_Darkness._

_Silence._

_The deposed Torchwood leader unstrapped the helmet from his companion's head, palming the pocket watch from the front of it before strapping the man into the co-pilot seat securely._

_The cats took their usual positions beneath the seats. JJ hopped into the captain's chair, strapping himself in before plotting in the coordinates for Earth._

_The **Bad Wolfe**'s groans became louder as she was forced onward through space, towards the nearest rift point. It was the final flight of the old Chula warship._

_Commander Harkness took one last look at his companion. "It's only temporary," he said with a forced calm before the shaking became worse._

_They had entered the rift. The next stop was Glasgow, Scotland, United Kingdom, Earth, Solar System._

_And Mr. Ianto Jones was going to wake up in a very strange freezer tomorrow._

* | * | *

Six months and a week.

Six months and a week before Archibald heard screaming from the morgue.

In the Glasgow office, the last Torchwood office in operation, the facility was really quite small. Most of the archives had been digitized by Cardiff years ago by the lovely Asian girl. The old man could not recall her name now. He only knew she was lovely, and bright, and could hold an intelligent conversation.

He'd just sat down for his tea, and to set about to the final log out procedures of the infamous Captain and his loyal crew. A blank card sat on the corner of his desk. He had intended to write something cheerful for the copper in Cardiff, congratulating her on her upcoming child. But he didn't know her. Not at all. Nothing beyond he intentions to leave Torchwood alive.

He could not begrudge her that.

But he was just setting down to do this, and take his tea, when he heard the screams from below. Loud, he recalled louder than he had thought they would be.

He'd risen up with a grunt, grabbing his gnarled wooden cane from where it rested. As he rounded his desk, he grabbed his gun from where it always lay on the corner, ready for anything, and made his way down to the lower levels.

Following the sound, as well as standard procedure, he carefully ventured towards it. Investigating the source... The morgue.

It was a small place, used for temporary storage. Glasgow had always only been a nerve centre of information and gadgetry. Research and development. Bodies in the morgue were rare on their own. Racking his brain, he searched his steel trap of a memory for what was laid to rest beyond the double doors he now pushed through with gun raised and cane held tight.

There was a pounding down the line of freezer doors. Pounding and screaming.

**"LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT!"**

The old man looked at the numbers fading off the front of each solid steel door before coming upon the noisemaker. The number... the number...

It couldn't be. Archibald knew every corpse and body stored in that room. He'd put them in himself. Most were acquired for research. But a few were former staff of Glasgow. Kept according to policy. Kept just like the body locked in freezer number 97B.

**"LET ME OUT! I'M NOT DEAD! OH GOD LET ME OUT!"**

Standing back, the old man reached up with the gnarled cane, using the end of it to maneuver the lock on the door. His gun was never lowered as the door came flying open and cold, almost blue hands with blood crusted knuckles reached for the top and pulled.

The table rolled out halfway, and the body tried to roll over. On the second try, the male form had managed to get on its side before crawling its way out and down to the floor.

Hands rubbing together, cold air from once dead lungs blew out onto them as the well dressed living corpse sat on the marginally warmer floor and tried to speak though his voice was now raw and hoarse.

The old man's eyes narrowed as the younger's widened, trying to figure out where he was. "J... J..." he tried to get out as his teeth chattered. His lips were blue from the extreme cold he had endured in the freezer. "Jack. Wh...wh....where's Jack?"

"Virgin Mary sweet mam of Christ," the old man said as he lowered his gun at last, using it to cross his heart before staggering back against the wall in disbelief. "You're... You're... Alive."


	2. We Are Not the Men In Black

**DISCLAIMER:**I don't own Torchwood. And just to keep things fair and square, I don't own Doctor Who either. I mean, I own merchandise, clearly, but not the actual intellectual properties.  
**MISC:**This was written for a friend on a whim. There IS Gwen Bashing, because I don't like Gwen. Also, This has man on man-ness. Yup, I said it. So if you don't like slashtastic_ (omg wtf what are you doing even LOOKING at Torchwood stories then?!?!)_ by all means look the other way. n.n** And Lastly, all blocks of text done in**_ italics_** will be dream sequences or daydreams.**

* * *

**_We are not the Men In Black_**

"No Ms. Cooper, I swear to you this isn't a hoax. I'm staring right at him. Believe me, Ms. Cooper, he's looking as shell shocked as I feel. I'd imagine dying takes a lot out of a guy."

The old man was silent, watching the younger as he pulled the heated blanket tighter around himself while nursing a tumbler full of brandy.

"Fine, don't believe me. But I know a miracle when I see one.... No, you don't have to come up here. I'm just... I know you're pregnant and... Take a picture? With my telephone? **PREPOSTEROUS**!"

The old man's cheeks were turning red as he spoke to the moody woman on the other end.

"Why? I'll tell you why little missy! I'm using a goddamn rotary phone, that's why!" Angrily, the old man slammed the receiver of his rotary telephone down causing the younger man to look over at him with his brow creased and his eyes half open in suspicion. "Bloody copper. I never liked her," Archibald said as he straightened his tie.

"Gwen is never one to accept the impossible, yet she's seen it every day for nearly four years."

"She's a walking paradox, that's for certain," the old man said as he took a seat at his desk. He poured himself a tumbler of brandy and held it up in a small toast. "It's just you and me now Mr. Jones," he said, taking a gulp.

"What?"

The old man sighed, setting down his glass just before a tomcat jumped onto his desk. It was a chocolate brown, with large, round eyes. And oh he purred. Absently, the old man reached up to pet him. "The Captain is gone. Until this afternoon, I was the last one standing. This office is all that's left to defend planet Earth from those bloody aliens. Drink up, Mr. Jones. It's not every day one of us Earth folk can rise from the dead. Well, not in 2000 years or so."

"Is that your cat?" Ianto asked, watching as the creature nuzzled against the old man's hand before turning in a circle and settling in on the pile of papers.

The old man blinked at him, then cracked into a broad smile. "No. Of course not. Do I look that desperate for a companion?!" He slapped his knee, causing the cat to hiss before skittering away. "No no, my boy! I thought he was with you!"

"What? I don't-"

"I thought it was a bit creepy, when you were brought here for storage, pardon me. The bugger was just perched on top of your chest like a proud lion. Reminded me of that one movie. Ah... with the fake aliens and the giant bug. I was expecting the suits from UNIT at any minute. And that's all I needed, wouldn't it. A creepy cat, a bad movie scene, and UNIT breathing down my neck for it."

Ianto stared at him, then watched as the cat slunk around nearby, but never getting close again. He sipped his brandy, sighing as the warmth of it spread, and he was able to feel it tingle in his limbs. It was almost like a nice hot cup of coffee...

"Archibald."

"Hn?"

"You should think about changing the litter box. It's a bit-"

"No no. That's not it. You're smelling yourself boy. Look at you, you haven't bathed in... Well, I don't think anyone saw the point in washing a corpse, now did they?"


	3. The Nightmare Child

**DISCLAIMER:**I don't own Torchwood. And just to keep things fair and square, I don't own Doctor Who either. I mean, I own merchandise, clearly, but not the actual intellectual properties.  
**MISC:**This was written for a friend on a whim. There IS Gwen Bashing, because I don't like Gwen. Also, This has man on man-ness. Yup, I said it. So if you don't like slashtastic _(omg wtf what are you doing even LOOKING at Torchwood stories then?!?!)_ by all means look the other way. n.n** And Lastly, all blocks of text done in **_italics _**will be dream sequences or daydreams**.

* * *

**_The Nightmare Child_**

_"We've been hit!" the human shouted, trying his best to work his control panel._

_**"You will surrender your time ship immediately, Mr. Harkness."** boomed an authoritative female voice through the communications link._

_"Never!" James shouted angrily. "Maneuver 13!"_

_"Sir, if we do that, we'll be defenseless."_

_"We'll be dead if we don't. Do it!"_

_He nodded as he spun his chair around to jump over to another panel to the side of the cockpit. The old bird, the way she'd been rebuilt, was meant to have at least three or four pilots. But according to James, this never happened. Well there was one time, he knew, when there were seventeen of the half-breed, but that was an issue all on its own._

_"Secondary thrusters on full, sir. The ion canon is ready and primed. And the Tombstone is ready on standby should we need a sudden escape strategy."_

_James turned his head 'round with a brilliant smile. The companion knew that look. He'd seen it more than once on the other man's face. Especially when he, a mere human, had done something amazingly fantastic. It was pride he saw, and he relished in it as he turned back to his work._

_"It's like you can read my mind."_

_"If that were true, sir," he said, hiding his own smile as he was bent over yet another, a third, control panel. "Then I should think neither of us would make it out of this alive."_

_"Well," James said. "Not without a grin on our exhausted faces. Now strap in and make ready, I'm flying us straight into the jaws of the Nightmare Child, and I'm taking Jenny's entire bastard fleet with us!"_

_The half Time Lord, half Boemina lifted the steel case off a lever. One the human knew should never, ever be used under any circumstances. When he was finished with his duties, he dropped back down into his chair, strapping himself in tight and holding on for dear life. A cat hunkered down at his feet. He kicked them some in sudden unexpected fright._

_"Damnit Rassilon! Get out from there!" James snapped angrily. The cat howled and went to its place beneath one of the other seats. He took one last look at Quin, and the human could swear there was starlight in his eyes. "If you see an opening, fire. No matter what the cost. Just fire and aim for the red Tardis."_

_"But-"_

_"Trust me. Just aim only for it, and we'll be able to make a clean get away. I promise," he said, then leaned forward, holding onto the lever tightly and using it to manually fly the ship into the deadly tricky maneuver 13... a maneuver oft termed suicidal._

*|*|*

He felt someone shaking him from his fitful sleep. It was the old man, leaning over him with a cup of coffee. "Get up, you lazy boy. That copper is coming today, and you're going to stay awake and prove I've not gone senile."

He sipped it once he'd sat up, and wrinkled his nose at the sharp, bitter taste. "This is at least a week old."

"Two weeks," Archibald said. "Now sit up and straighten up in here. I know I said you could sleep in the office, but I didn't mean to make a mess of things."

The spare office was immaculate, Ianto knew as he looked around. He had done little to change things except buy a cheap air freshener to sit on the desk, and a couch cover for the broken piece of furniture he'd been sleeping upon.

"Well? Get cracking. She'll be here at seven."

"You woke me at-"

"Five. Yes. She'll be here later this evening, now straighten up. Unlike you, young man, I've work to get done and I can't have you laying about all day like a useless corpse." The old man paused, then smiled darkly. "Unless you'd like to go have a lie down in the morgue for another 6 months."


	4. What are you going to wear when you die?

**DISCLAIMER:**I don't own Torchwood. And just to keep things fair and square, I don't own Doctor Who either. I mean, I own merchandise, clearly, but not the actual intellectual properties.  
**MISC:**This was written for a friend on a whim. There IS Gwen Bashing, because I don't like Gwen. Also, This has man on man-ness. Yup, I said it. So if you don't like slashtastic _(omg wtf what are you doing even LOOKING at Torchwood stories then?!?!) _by all means look the other way. n.n **And Lastly, all blocks of text done in**_ italics_ **will be dream sequences or daydreams.**

* * *

**_What are you going to wear when you die?_**

"The spare office is cleaned."

"You're not going to wear that are you?"

"What's wrong with it?"

"You died in that."

Ianto looked down at himself, and thought about it for a moment. He did remember waking up wearing it. He remembered somethng about that day. He was wearing the suit when he'd died. But he didn't remember the dying. Not straight away. After a few silent seconds, it came to him, as if watching an old film strip. Yes, there was Jack. There he was, cradled in his arms. But beyond that... beyond facts.

He shook his head and sighed.

"I've got a spare suit you can wear in my wardrobe. Don't take the green one. I'm saving that for when I die. You made me rethink my post-mortem dress sense."

"What did you have picked out before?"

He laughed. "A yellow track suit with a thick black stripe down the sides."

*|*|*

He'd greeted the woman with the parasite attached to her stomach at the door of his humble branch. Unlike the others, his was a small and in the open operation. Hiding in plain sight, Glasgow always did. Why, even the old wooden sign on the front read **TORCHWOOD** with a subheading of **Investigations of the Paranormal, Supernatural, and Unexplained**.

To this, the woman, the copper named Gwen, had scoffed and rolled her eyes. Her husband, whom Archibald pitied upon seeing him, carried her luggage. The woman had assumed there would be lodging provided.

He supposed he could open another of the old, dusty offices. Or perhaps an old store room now empty thanks to the onslaught of the digital age.

Now, however, he sat with her husband in the entrance room, a small little office for show rather than serious business. The two were conversing over, of all things, sports. Archibald was an avid cricket fan, though he did follow rugby from time to time. It was the finer points of this sport that the two discussed over a nice steaming cuppa tea, leaving the other two Cardiff natives to talk of other things.

In the back of his mind, the old man pitied Mr. Jones for having to spend such time with that horrid woman. And her husband wondered if they'd left the gas on at their flat before leaving Cardiff.


	5. Taking up space and breathing my air

**DISCLAIMER:**I don't own Torchwood. And just to keep things fair and square, I don't own Doctor Who either. I mean, I own merchandise, clearly, but not the actual intellectual properties.  
**MISC:**This was written for a friend on a whim. There IS Gwen Bashing, because I don't like Gwen. Also, This has man on man-ness. Yup, I said it. So if you don't like slashtastic_ (omg wtf what are you doing even LOOKING at Torchwood stories then?!?!)_ by all means look the other way. n.n **And Lastly, all blocks of text done in **_italics_** will be dream sequences or daydreams.**

* * *

**_You're taking up space and breathing my air._**

The visit with Gwen left a bad taste in his mouth. The cat adored her though. He supposed that was a plus. She asked him to come back to Cardiff with her. To see his sister, her family. Try to get his life back together with this miraculous second chance.

But something in the Welshman told him to decline. There was something here, something he could not quite place holding him in Glasgow. However, rather than tell her this, he used logic against her. An old, valuable tactic he had initially used to deflect attention in London, then later when he had brought Lisa to Torchwood's basement.

If he went back, he reasoned to her, there would be questions. Questions he couldn't answer. She shot back with the fact that citizens in Cardiff saw Jack die on a regular basis. More than they were ever able to track down and retcon. To them, seeing a dead man walking around was the least of their worries and cares. It was almost... normal.

He then had reasoned that what if someone came looking for Jack? Or for her? He would be useless to stop them. That his resurrection may have just been a one off. A fluke, and wouldn't happen again.

No, he was better off this way. Somewhere new, somewhere he could start over. Torchwood had become his life, his everything, aside from the fact he was practically glued to the boss's pelvis. It was the only thing he really knew anymore, that Ianto was certain of.

He did relent and agree to visit her from time to time, if he was in the area. But something told him he would never be.

That night, he was thinking of his conversation with Gwen when the old man had stopped by the office he'd claimed as his bedroom.

"Yes?"

"If you're going to be taking up valuable space and breathing my air, boy, you're going to earn it. After that bloody copper goes back to Wales, you're going to get to work. You want to keep this office, you're going to show me why you should have it. Is that clear, young man?"

He lifted his head with a smile as the tomcat snuck in through the door. "You're not going to toss me out into the cold then?"

"Of course not. You're already trained, and have quite the skill with computers. Not utilizing the resources at hand would be completely stupid. I'd rather get put in a home..." he mumbled as he went away. His limp, Ianto noticed, was worse than usual. The offices did get rather cold, he knew.

Tomorrow, he'd have a look at the central heating systems. See if he couldn't at least get those in working order.

As he drifted off to sleep, he realized he didn't have a clue how to fix a central heating unit, and couldn't exactly remember where the idea had come from.


	6. Rat Poison Now in Cherry Flavor

**DISCLAIMER:**I don't own Torchwood. And just to keep things fair and square, I don't own Doctor Who either. I mean, I own merchandise, clearly, but not the actual intellectual properties.**  
MISC:**This was written for a friend on a whim. There IS Gwen Bashing, because I don't like Gwen. Also, This has man on man-ness. Yup, I said it. So if you don't like slashtastic _(omg wtf what are you doing even LOOKING at Torchwood stories then?!?!)_ by all means look the other way. n.n** And Lastly, all blocks of text done in** _italics_ **will be dream sequences or daydreams.**

* * *

  
_**Rat Poison - Now in Cherry Flavor**_

___He was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling._

"It's eerie."

"What is?" he asked, counting the dots he found up there.

"Four beats. Four distinct heartbeats. It's so..."

"So? You've only got two. I don't know how you lot manage with just the one. I once met a man who had six of them. Six hearts! Can you believe it... then again, he was the size of a small mansion. And he was a muffin man. Can you believe it? That bloke was considered healthy and fit for his species."

"What did I say about rambling?" he said firmly, lifting his head and staring down at the younger looking but far older man.

"There are two million, ninety-seven thousand, five hundred and twelve dots on my ceiling."

He groaned, giving the alien a hard elbow into one of his two hearts. "You asshole. You've been counting the dots again, instead of-"

"What? You wanted me to find something to keep myself quiet so I don't ramble during sex. It's your fault, you know."

"Shut up and get dressed. We're already running late for the French Revolution."

"Time ship. Time traveler."

"Jonathan James, don't make me have to poison your coffee."

"With the cherry flavored rat poison or the regular flavor?"

"Regular flavor. And I'll suffocate you with your own pillow and leave you stranded naked in the main lobby. **Again.**"

Those brown eyes twinkled, becoming almost blue in his amusement before he groaned and gave in. "Fine... but only because I'm too exhausted to agrue with you today."

The coffee boy rolled over onto his own back as the leader of Torchwood got up, looking for his clothes. "**Quin**?..."

"Pants are in the living room. Shirt is in the hall. Socks and a shoe is in the kitchen sink, and your shorts ended up in the freezer."

"How-"

"I know everything." He smiled like the cat who got the cream. "Plus, your cats thought we were playing hide and seek with them again, so they got a bit pissy and used your coat as a litter box. I'll have it done before you get back from the office, where you seemed to have left your vortex manipulator. Again."


	7. Bastard Owes Me 50 Quid

**DISCLAIMER:**I don't own Torchwood. And just to keep things fair and square, I don't own Doctor Who either. I mean, I own merchandise, clearly, but not the actual intellectual properties.  
**MISC:**This was written for a friend on a whim. There IS Gwen Bashing, because I don't like Gwen. Also, This has man on man-ness. Yup, I said it. So if you don't like slashtastic _(omg wtf what are you doing even LOOKING at Torchwood stories then?!?!)_ by all means look the other way. n.n **And Lastly, all blocks of text done in **_italics_** will be dream sequences or daydreams.**

* * *

**_Bastard Owes me 50 Quid._**

He found himself puzzling through the strange dreams he had been having while searching a darkened corridor. He'd written in his journal, of course. He ended each day with an entry, and as of late had started each day with one as well.

It was a force of habit, a way to chronicle his work and his life objectively within the scope of logic and reason. As well as to get things off his mind so he could focus on his work and his duties.

But lately, even that had been unable to steal his thoughts as they kept returning to his own former death and the strange dreams he had begun having shortly after his miraculous resurrection.

"Watch where you're pointing that thing, boy!" the old man barked at him as they were going deeper into the ancient castle.

"I don't think reports of ghosts in the castle are something for Torchwood to be investigating, sir," he said, trying not to cringe at the title he reserved for another.

The old man whirled on him, his cane at the young man's throat before he could even blink. "Look, Mr. Jones, you're only here because you need to earn your keep. **NOT** for the colourful commentary you could provide. Besides, it's not a ghost story. There's ghosts, for sure, but this one is different. The staff say they've seen a man, a real man, running these corridors. Sometimes carrying strange contraptions. But when they follow him, he's mysteriously disappeared. Into thin air."

"Only that he hasn't gone anywhere," Ianto replied as the cane was lowered. "You suspect he's still here, just hiding-"

"Out of sync with the rest of time. I know it sounds barmy, boy, but remember who we are. Besides, if it's that bloody Time Lord again, I want my damn money back. Bastard owes me fifty quid. And I'll be damned if UNIT gets they're grubby little hands on him this time. Oh no, Harold Saxon is mine, damnit. I also owe him a beating for this."

He used his cane to tap at his leg, and Ianto heard the unmistakable hollow sound of wood. "Battle scar of the Valiant, that is. You won't remember though, you lucky bastard," Archibald said. "Now come on, reports say he's usually in the west wing basements."


	8. Who Took You Off Mute?

**DISCLAIMER:**I don't own Torchwood. And just to keep things fair and square, I don't own Doctor Who either. I mean, I own merchandise, clearly, but not the actual intellectual properties.  
**MISC:**This was written for a friend on a whim. There IS Gwen Bashing, because I don't like Gwen. Also, This has man on man-ness. Yup, I said it. So if you don't like slashtastic _(omg wtf what are you doing even LOOKING at Torchwood stories then?!?!)_ by all means look the other way. n.n **And Lastly, all blocks of text done in**_ italics_ **will be dream sequences or daydreams.**

* * *

**_Who Took You Off Mute?_**

"Are you insane?!"

"Look, it's not my fault. I did the only thing I could do. It was the only way."

"No, it wasn't. There's always another-"

"Donna, I don't have time for this."

"Don't you call me Donna. I'm still your mother, in case you haven't noticed."

"You're a bloody computer program!"

"A bloody computer program who is your mother! Now you fix this or-"

He palmed the mute button on the desktop, making the shouting woman on the screen silent at last. "It's almost done. Once I have the vortex manipulator working properly as it should, I'll join the Time Agency, try to help them stop Jenny and the Master. It's the only chance we have now. If I can shift history in a certain direction, just a small little nudge, he'll stay safe, here, on Earth."

The woman on the screen shook her head before disappearing from view and replacing herself with a set of blueprints.

A cat wearing a small blue suit and two pairs of little red trainers lifted its head, and looked towards the door.

A cranky, male sounding voice came from beyond that door, and the cat jumped from his perch and hid behind the rather worn and battered computer.

"You check this one, I'll check the one down the way. Shout if you see anything suspicious!"

"Shit shit shit shit," he hissed, nearly cat-like himself as he fumbled with his tools. Trying frantically to get them put away as the door shook. He'd thought hiding out in the castle dungeon would be the perfect place. No one but tourists ever came down, during group tours of course. He could easily hide himself among them, or just put a sign on the door saying "Closed for Maintenance" to keep himself hidden.

"Donna," he hissed. The screen remained only a blueprint. "Mum...." he groaned quietly. "Now would be a good time for that perception filter cloaker thing." He glanced back at the door, panic evident on his face as he heard the hinges creak.

Frozen still, his hearts raced in his chest as he stared at the suited man, moving his flashlight cautiously from side to side as he checked the room.

"Mr. Jones!" came that cranky old voice again. The younger man turned his head, never lowering his gun as it was a few inches away from the tinkering man's chest.

He held his breath as he stared, trying to keep perfectly still and hoping to Rassilon that the damned cat would keep still. Keep hidden.

The light lingered on him for a moment, and he swore he had been caught before the old voice came again.

"Mr. Jones! Get your scrawny ass back here!"

He turned, slowly, and exited the room. The man in hiding exhaled in relief. Then paused once more as the other stopped, and looked over his shoulder. After a small shake of his head, he left the doorway to follow after the old man.

"Bloody hell," he said at last when he was sure he was completely alone. Creeping over to the door, he peered down the darkened corridor, straining to see before ducking back in and closing the door. He searched his pockets for his screwdriver, unable to find it he tried shoving a heavy chair in front of the thing.

"I told you hiding in a castle was a bad idea."

"Who took you off mute," he hissed.

"I did. That was close, James," the computerized woman said. "Besides, we have more pressing matters at hand. UNIT just uncovered the Bad Wolfe wreckage."

"What?!"

"That's not all. I've been communicating with this charming super computer in Ealing. He calls himself Mr. Smith and-"

"Cut to the chase, Donna."

"Not with that attitude I won't," she snapped.

He glanced over his shoulder, lowering his voice. "Fine, mum," he said. "What else is there?"

"Strange ships spotted in the Medusa Cascade."

"That's a rift point, isn't it?"

The woman on the screen nodded. "Indeed. And also a void tear. In our universe it was the site of the Dalek's reality bomb. From information we've gathered in the last six months, this universe may also have experienced that event. If so..."

"Then there's a time lock. And if there's a time lock, it may be just unstable enough to attempt.... **No.** We've got to stop them. But without the ship, there's no hope of leading them astray now."

"Well..." she replied, replacing herself with another set of blueprints. "There's always this. With my help, you'll be able to grow one into a fully mature ship in... around 9 to 10 months."

"We don't have that kind of time."

"We do when it's already half grown and buried in the rubble of Cardiff thanks to good old Captain Jack."


End file.
